


Say Something Nice

by tigersilver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 02:18:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14728083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: All Malfoy does is grumble under his breath; Harry's a bit peeved by it.





	Say Something Nice

It’s only been a month into mandatory Eighth Year and Malfoy’s been grumbling under his breath the whole time. Harry’s getting sick of it, honestly. Ticks him right off. Might nark him off more that nobody’s noticed but him but he’s not. Well...he’s not willing to draw attention.

He’s _not_ Malfoy’s enemy.

When he and Malfoy were straight-off assigned to share one of the converted dorm rooms Harry hadn’t really minded. Malfoy, though. Malfoy had rolled his eyes and muttered darkly to Zabini for days on end in the corners of the Eighter’s Commons, avoiding Harry as if he were the walking incarnation of an infestation of Doxies.

He had kept meticulously himself to himself in their shared quarters as well. Harry’s tentative ‘ _Hey?_ ’s’, ‘ _Good morning’_ s’ and daily ‘ _Have you seen my one trainer?_ ’s had been greeted with monosyllabic replies, frostily polite nods and the occasional expressive squinty-orbs-plus-mocking-raised-eyebrow-and-finger-pointing routines. And while Harry appreciated that Malfoy was willing to help him find his always-errant footwear, it was still wearisome to spend each and every bedtime in an eerily deathly quietude, trading off on the tiny _en suite_ like clockwork come half eleven and taking turns at whispering ‘ _Nox_ ’.

Yes, well. Hogwarts is bit different than it was in the years before the final battle and that’s putting it mildly.

For instance, at meals, the Eighters have their own separate, much smaller table and there’s no House colours allowed; everyone is lumped in all together like, well...assorted kippers. Or maybe spare brooms. Whatever. Anyway, there’s no more lions nor badgers, snakes nor eagles but only the regular old Hogwarts school insignia. Malfoy had made faces at their new all-purpose badges and ties for days after they began term, plainly mourning his old familiar serpents. He and Parkinson had been noticed shaking their heads dolefully over the Eighter’s one single lonely banner, a shoddy affair made up of a symbolic silvery numeral eight stuck on on a plain purple background.

The Eighters are sort of like everyone’s least favourite stepchild, or possibly that’s how Harry suspects Malfoy believes  they’re perceived.

Harry’s tried to ignore it as best as he could, really he has: the muted grumbling, the incessant sighing, the sly side-eyeing, the hastily hidden sneers and the too-oft’-offended nostril-flares. But with Malfoy assigned not only as Harry’s  roommate but also as his Potions and DADA practicum partner (there were really so pathetically few of them, the Eighters), it was quickly becoming a daily neverending trial of Harry’s patience. Not-seeing and not-hearing Malfoy’s tiny discontents is driving him barking. And he can’t even complain about it to his oblivious best mates for fear of landing Malfoy in a cauldron of trouble.  

Because it’s not as though Malfoy’s been overtly uncivil or unkind or even the slightest bit gittish, not even to Harry. He’s perfectly fine and perfectly well-behaved and sometimes even strangely  kindly to the younger students. It’s just...it’s just it’s really horribly obvious he’s deeply unhappy with his lot. Or, if not truly morose, at the very least _miffed._

 At least according to the observations of Harry, who, admittedly, does take a great interest in the doings of his dorm mate and revising partner. This ‘speaking only when spoken to’ act is bloody infuriating. Hell, watching Malfoy covertly cringe over the relentless violet hues of the Eighter’s Common room is sheer torture.

 But _purple and all-purpose_ are the lesser of all evils afflicting the Eighters, Harry discovers--at least where Malfoy’s concerned. The ramifications of no Houses hadn’t really sunk in until it arrived at usual time for Quidditch tryouts. With no Houses, it logically followed these returning elder students weren’t technically able to be included in their old teams.

Malfoy had taken that revelation very hard. Very hard indeed.

McGonagall’s announcement had been the last shrivelfig sliver, apparently. Harry watched in quiet horror as the blond menace slammed a purple porcelain pumpkin juice pitcher down with such force he’d nearly shattered it. Had then been nearly knocked arse-over-teakettle off their shared bench by the flurry of the impulsive git’s huge hurry to rise right up to his fullest height at table and glare accusingly at the Head, his mouth gawping open in speechless appallment and his pointy index finger aimed straight at Headmistress and trembling ferociously at the end of a long robed arm.

Thank Merlin it wasn’t his wand, Harry thought fleetingly, cautiously releasing his death grip on the table’s edge.

Malfoy’s response didn’t go unnoticed. McGonagall cleared her throat pointedly and returned Malfoy’s stunning glare post-haste. But yet with the extra force of _a thousand burning Beltane blazes._

Malfoy, fortunately for his continued enrollment,  hadn’t completely lost his wits. Turning tail, he dashed out the Great Hall  in a great rush. Harry only just barely heard the git’s “Pardon me, excuse me, make way, emergency! I need the Infirmary!” left echoing in his rapidly receding wake.

The doors of the Great Hall slammed resoundingly behind him.

Which was precisely the awkward moment when Harry realized that he, too, was on his feet, the sole focus of not only a roomful of the awed eyes of  his fellow students but also of those aforementioned _thousand burning Beltane blazes_.

“Ahem,” McGonagall coughed again, adjusting the intensity of her Long Stare only marginally in deference to Harry’s status as Saviour. “Potter?”

“Y-Yes, ma'am?” Harry stuttered, pointlessly clenching his hands and shuffling slightly. He did his best to seem innocuous. In other words, completely unconnected with Malfoy’s actions. “W-What may I do for you?” he inquired, stalwart to the last, despite the lack of House folderol.

“Well, what _are_ you waiting for, Potter?” McGonagall demanded, gesturing imperiously. “Go after him!”  

Which is why Harry’s just manhandled an out-of-breath and red-faced Malfoy bodily into their dorm room and also why Harry is shouting at him, nose-to-nose, close-range distance, and probably also why Harry’s feeling just that rarified ginger twat hair away from hexing his old enemy with Bat Bogeys and boils out of sheer, unvarnished, unparalleled frustration.  Because naturally Harry has followed right on the blond bastard’s heels, building up a towering dudgeon as he went trotting up the six flights of stairs, neatly dodging every stray swinging landing and spewing miscellaneous invective at the passing decor.

“Why the _fuck_ , Malfoy?”

“Fuck--” Malfoy starts up but Harry’s having none of it.

“ _Why_? Why the fucking-fuck-fuck?” Harry snarls, the words struggling so hard up his throat and over his tongue in their hurry they’re coming out half-strangled and gargling, so it’s more a hissing-gurgle he’s having at the choking culprit than the proper shouting-at he’d like to be delivering. “Godric’s gonads!”

“-- _off_!” Malfoy spits, twisting in Harry’s grip like the sneaky snake he really is.

“Why is it you’re such a fractious git?” Harry thunders on, righteously perturbed. “I mean, isn’t it enough that we’re alive? That we have the chance to come back here; that Hogwarts is even still standing and we’re still standing _in_ it? What the flying fuckall is your problem, Malfoy? Why is always sour grapes with you? Why can’t you ever, _ever_ say something nice?”

Harry stops, panting. Also fuming. 

Malfoy grunts and also breathes stertorously, scrabbling hands busily occupied with prying Harry’s fumbling fingers off his long pale throat. Harry, finally noticing that he’s gotten so riled up he’s practically up Malfoy;s aquiline nose, makes a half-hearted effort to lay hold of himself, grudgingly stepping back the barest pace. “I mean--I mean-- _fuck_ , Malfoy!” he protests, blinking rapidly, trying to lower his arms and stop his Malfoy-molesting. “Jesus, god and Godric, you’re a certifible Bedlamite!”

“ _You!_ ”

But Malfoy’s not letting Harry go, quite. He catches at Harry’s wrists and holds them fast, yanking Harry right back into his personal space. He’s leaning his blotchy face down so he’s breathing hard against Harry’s parched and parted lips. His gaze is a pewter-and-ebon’ maelstrom, his fringe is flopping down and tangling into Harry’s eyelashes.

“I what, Malfoy? What in the name of fuck did _I_ ever do?” Harry, suddenly realizing he’s been caught, thinks about struggling. “Or wait--is that it? Is it I’m not doing something and you wanted me to?”

Malfoy rocks his hips, thrusting straight through that tiny, itty-bitty distance that separates them and then stays there, leaning his weight into Harry, who sways. Apparently this is Malfoy's answer. 

Well, fuck.  

At such close quarters Harry can’t help but take in the smell of the pumpkin juice Malfoy had been drinking and the warm citrus scent of his cologne. He simultaneously realizes he’s not only incredibly livid but also unbearably aroused.

“...Fuck?” His eyes widen and all the world instantly narrows down to coalesce into a swirl of indelible impressions: a steady, knowing silver-grey gaze and a remarkably tentative leer flirting about the edges of a set of well-cut lips. Malfoy’s always-at-play eyebrows waggle, one jerking a little higher than the other. All of this is strangely, oddly, overwhelmingly affecting to Harry and  his youthful hormones. His cock jerks forward in his pants like an eager Crup puppy. He gasps.

“Fuuuuck,” he breathes out; he’s really, really gagging for it. He’d no clue just a split-second ago but there it is. “Oh, fuuuuck.”  

As is Malfoy--Harry knows that for a certainty, because he can feel it, Malfoy’s prick.

Front and center, where their robes are gaping open and their flies are pressed up together, buttons digging in painfully and hip bones bumping as they shift about, entangled. And Malfoy--as it happens, Harry has somehow noted-and-filed this information in passing--is quite, quite well-endowed and every inch of that notable length is ramped up proper. As Harry’s no laggard himself in that particular department, his lingering flush of rage morphs rapidly into a haze of pleased self-appreciation and thence into an ever more heightened appreciation of _Malfoy_.

“Oh fuck!” Harry winces.

This won’t do, it really won’t. Harry doesn’t recall wishing to shag Malfoy prior to this moment, really he doesn’t. He doesn’t care to fight with Malfoy either; he just wants to rub along with him. Not like that! Just...coexist in peace and with a mutual lack of acrimony, if nothing else. Perhaps revise together. Maybe go flying.

“You _think_ , Potter?”

So it’s really unfair of the universe that Malfoy is such an attractive arse and that Harry’s teenage hormone-fuelled body  finds him sufficiently fit enough to flagrantly flout any last-minute internal cautions.

‘Or, is it...is it that you _wish_ , Potter?”

Malfoy smirks. That is not, evidently, an actual question.

“It _is_ , isn’t it?”

It’s not a nasty smirk; it’s the opposite: sweet, hopeful and charming as fuck. Assured, but yet not. He also somehow manages to insinuate himself even closer to Harry’s person. Harry nods his ‘yes’ anyway, and pretty damned fervently, as Malfoy’s hand is hovering directly over his butting cockhead and he can feel the heat right through the intervening two layers of cloth. It’s  all so ripe with promise he’s near to bursting.

“Well, thank _fuck_.” Malfoy shuffles backwards, taking Harry along with him and deliberately tripping the both of them up. His palm finally makes contact--oh, glorious!--even as they are tumbling down upon the most convenient four-poster ever conceived of in the history of the Wizarding world, Harry’s damn sure of it. Malfoy’s, actually, which is nearest the door.

The door, which Harry had conveniently kicked shut behind them.

The _closed_ door, which effectively blocks out the even more conveniently empty Commons.

“P-Potter?” Malfoy mumbles, lipping though Harry’s tangled hair as he attempts--and succeeds, the talented fellow--in removing Harry’s specs with his teeth. “Mnph! Y-You want to?” he persists, deftly flinging the spectacles off away somewhere with a shake of his head. “You do, right? Don’t you?”

“F-Fuck,” Harry groans, nodding like a maniac bobblehead and closing his eyes against the plea in those speaking grey eyes. Even if he hadn't wanted to before, that those eyes would’ve spelt his downfall. He tears at Malfoy’s clothes, willfully blinded. “Yes, fuck! Fuck yes!”

There are far too many of everything in the way and he’s all at once bound and determined to remove all barriers between Malfoy’s persistent fingers diddling away at the swell of his penis. Happily for all, one of his hands lands upon Malfoy’s cock and he instinctively squeezes.  

“Oh, topping--good; right _on_ \--that’s it, that’s it--fuck me, fuck it. Sala **_zar_ ** , Potter!”

Malfoy shuts his trap and truly puts his back into it--or rather his wandless Disrobing Charm, helping Harry, helping himself. It’s awkward as anything what with sleeves peeling themselves away and trousers forcibly removing themselves in conjunction with shoelaces flying through untying but they do manage, flinging discarded garments every which way and rucking up the duvet something awful.

And full on skin-to-skin at long last is utterly blissful; Harry and Malfoy squeak, groan, grunt, gasp and grab, mashing their faces together and stroke-rubbing at whatever bits they can lay their sweat-slippery hands on. Mouths and tongues get mixed in; there’s some definite gentle drubbing of arseholes, maybe a fingertip here or there, drool-y nipping and some genuinely scrumptious sucking. Being agile, healthy and inventive, Harry and Malfoy manage to cover quite a lot of sexual ground in very short order.

In real-time, it doesn’t take long at all. That first time. Or the second. That it takes even as long as it does is only because they’re also two shatter-brained lads, all wound up by their unusual method of foreplay. Running, shouting, brooding and fighting do make it difficult to truly focus on expelling all that tremendous build-up in the best of all possible manners.  

It’s pretty good, Harry reflects, somewhere about two-and-a-half times into the experience. Not half bad, even.

Which is the most monstrous understatement ever, as Harry’s never, _ever_ gotten off with another human being before, not even Ginny.

“Gah!” he utters weakly, flopping back and flinging a slimy dripping hand heedlessly across a wayward pillow. _Yes, okay_ , he admits inwardly, easing his spinning head over enough so that he can peep at all Malfoy’s lovely nakedness and boy-bits. He does quite like looking.   _Especially_ not _Ginny_ . Fuck, _no_ ; she’s like his fucking sister. “Urk!”

“Potter--Potter, you alright there? Come on now, come _on_ , come for me!”

“Neep!” Harry squeaks, all thoughts of sisterly gingers fleeing his head as Malfoy’s hand milks out of him the very last dribble from the most amazing wank Harry’s ever had. “Oh, fuck, ooohhh...gods, gods! Stop it, Malfoy, please; I can’t take any more!”

Malfoy does and he too collapses, flat as a pin-prick’d Dirigible Plum though with significantly less whistling. Still dramatically, though. What with the squiff of sweaty blond hair, that hearty manly growl-groan and that magnificently Confounded expression and all.

After a moment or two Harry remembers to compliment his brand-new lover. “ _Fuck_ , Malfoy,” he coos, smiling vacantly at the canopied ceiling, truly in charity with everything on Earth. “Your hands are--your mouth--the way you--I can't even--fucking aces, man!”

He’s a mite incoherent about it but at least he’s trying. And that’s all that matters. Say something nice, Merlin fuck it!

“N’urgh!” Malfoy replies soddenly, the very picture of supreme satiation: sprawled out, eyes screwed tight-shut, kiss-bitten lips, quivery-quavery like blancmange and a definitive tell-tale tilt to the corners of his too-often-snide mouth. Harry feels the bed bounce as the other boy arches one final time, shaking off the shivers, and then quiets down, slumping fluidly atop the mattress. He gestures feebly, accidently rearranging his flaccid prick. “N’ckt’ch, Po’er. Gn’ack.”

Truly, there’s not much one may say to that. Complaisant, Harry doesn’t even bother himself about it. Instead, a peaceful reverie falls between them, marked only by the faint sounds of subsiding breathing and the wispy subtonal noises indicative of states of great personal satisfaction.

It’s quite possible they both doze off, especially as the windows have gone fully dark by the time Harry blinks back into real awareness.

“What? Hey?”

Abruptly energized, Harry rolls restlessly back over so as to splay himself across Malfoy’s limp form and pin his unresisting body down.

“Malfoy. Hey, Malfoy?” A thought has struck him, a loose end, as it were. In a veritable tangle of them, to be sure, but this one seems the most urgent. “Malfoy!”

“Whoa!” Malfoy blinks blearily up at Harry, pupils blown wide and dark in the grey-light. “Wha…? Pot--”

“Say it,” Harry commands assuredly, nudging Malfoy’s stupidly attractive pointy chin with his scarred forehead. “Come on, do. Just say something, anything, alright? Something.fucking nice, though, will you? ‘Cause you haven’t yet.”

Malfoy seems to be having problems keeping his eyelids unstuck; also he yawns widely, right in Harry’s face.

“Hey!” Harry protests. “Stop that, you great lagging wanker. You owe me.”

“Pardon, Potter? What now?” The accusation of debt has both infamous Malfoy orbs wide open in a flash. He brushes off Harry’s pinching fingertips as if they were of no consequence.

“You heard me, Malfoy,” Harry says flatly, unimpressed. “Say something nice. Or no shagging.”

"Are you threatening me, Potter?" Malfoy eyes Harry warily. “Er?” he hums questioningly, raising one of those insouciant eyebrows.”I...rather thought I _had_ , already? Said ‘something’. Um, ’nice’, as you term it. Implied it, at least. _Strongly_.”

“When? When did you?” Harry wants to know. “I don’t remember it; you’ll have to repeat yourself. Go on now.”

“Um?” Malfoy blinks up at Harry in obvious confusion, for once apparently as innocent as, well, as innocent as he can possibly be for an unctuous, rambunctious Malfoy. So, not the pure driven Wilshire snow but not the Diagon Alley slush either. Harry nods at him encouragingly; he’s eager to hear. “Just now?” Malfoy continues. “I mean, before we. We--ahh?” He blushes. “Uh, um. Got off.”

Harry snickers.

“Potter!” Malfoy protests, indignant. “Stop looking at me like that. Remember now? I was nice about it--I recall it quite clearly.”

“Well, yeah,” Harry agrees, quite equably. “You did do, thank you.” He’s no quarrel with how Malfoy went about it. Hell’s handbells, he’d really emphatically _appreciated_ being made sure of, all the way through. Not that ‘all the way through’ was exactly an endurance event but still. Clearly the thought was there and Malfoy could be trusted. But that wasn’t the issue at hand, not at all. “That’s not the issue, Malfoy,” Harry says, scowling and shaking his head. “Not at all.”

“Oh.” Malfoy winces uncomfortably and gives Harry’s shoulder a soft shove. “Look here, I think better when I can breathe, Potter. Could you shift over?”

“Oh, right, sorry!” Harry makes haste to do so. His assisted sideways slide lands him comfortably snug up to Malfoy's ribs, hips and the miles of Pureblood porcelain smooth shank. He curls happily against the shared warmth and smiles gratefully when Malfoy tugs the mussed duvet back into some sort of logical order. “Um, thanks.”

“Of course,” Malfoy says. Turning his head, he peers at Harry; curiosity’s apparent. Concern, too, which just makes Harry feel all the warmer against the descent of evening chill in the room. “Now, what’s this about, Potter? I confess I’m at sea.”

“Right, that,” Harry searches for the proper words for a half second and then simply gives it up as a bad job. Malfoy’s a bright git and he’ll hopefully understand Harry’s little problem. His own little problem, more like, since it’s Malfoy’s attitude that’s the questionable one, not Harry’s.

“You’ve been grousing ever since we came back, okay?” he says quickly, getting on with it, “and it’s been driving me spare. I don’t understand it, I simply don’t. Hogwarts isn’t so bad, you know? Not even with the lack of Houses for us Eighters and all that. Not even without Quidditch.”

“Grrr!” Malfoy growls, gritting his teeth in a snarl. “Please, Potter, don't remind me.”

“Sorry! But, the way of it is, we’re not at each other’s throats like we were, not now. We’re even partners, of sorts. We have to help each other, day in and day out, and we do. We do, but you still show me the cold shoulder, Malfoy. So, I don’t understand--I mean, I just want you to--can’t you see that--I don't even know what you’re thinking, complaining all the time. No one ever hears you but me, you know, and that’s only because I’m listening for it.”

“Potter,” Malfoy interjects firmly, “what I’m thinking at any particular instant is none of your bloody business, alright? Just as your head’s your own again now, so is mine.”

“Oh.” Harry grimaces. “Point, Malfoy. Merlin, I’m sorry, I wasn’t prying, you know. That’s your business, of course it is, but, hey? Just...just,” He stops, mouth open. He’s not so certain he knows what the problem is, now they’ve shagged. Has that changed things? “But we’ve just shagged,” He shrugs helplessly in the face of Malfoy’s unwavering gaze. “Does that mean you’ll be happier, you think?”

“...’Happier,’ Potter?” Malfoy’s answer comes slowly. He swallows, and it catches Harry’s attention, the movement of his elegant throat: there’s a little dark mark, a blotch of reddened skin marring the column of milky skin. “I suppose, yes? I mean, I’m certainly not unhappy about it. Was pretty brilliant, right?” His elbow juts out just enough to nudge at Harry’s belly. “Sex sort of is. Brilliant, I mean.”

Harry, eyes on the bruise, doesn't say anything. He’s not quite certain if Malfoy’s just explained the universe or if he’s deftly avoided the issue. Some Slytherin characteristics just can’t be smothered by layers of mauve, a stuck on badge and the Eighter’s Oath. Just as some Gryffindor traits are flamingly obvious, no matter how many times e’s told himself curiosity killed the kneazle and he should just mellow out.

“I.” So really, there’s only one course of action left. “Malfoy, I--I really, _really_ admire your DADA work. It’s pretty amazing; I wish I’d had you around when I was teaching. And--and--your hair? Your hair’s really good. All smooth and now I know it’s really soft and it gets wavy when you’re at sport--or at shagging, or something like--and the colour, so pale, like platinum--I mean, you’re all over just so--so brill--”

“Oh, fuck, Potter!” Malfoy’s rolled all the way over and has Harry encircled in his arms in an instant. “Oh, fuck, I like yours, too, okay? I like how wild it is and it’s brilliant to stick my fingers in and I--I can’t tell you how fucking impressed I am by how you attack Potions now, how intense you are, and it shows, it’s like your flying, and the way we, the way you--oh fuck, can we, Potter? May we?”

“Fuck yes,” Harry says, “oh, fuck yes, let’s!”

And it's possible his lashes are a little damp; that’s so weird but it doesn't matter because Malfoy’s tongue is already licking deep into his mouth and yeah, sex _is_ sort of brilliant. Complimentary, really. When it's maybe not the words so much that matter. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 


End file.
